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Tristan on the Rebound
Tristan on the Rebound, with a little help from Tim|
Tristan was asleep with a man on top of him. A tarzan of a muscle stud, lean but heavy with pecs, abs, steel buns. And Tristan was the little man's waterbed, soft and warm underneath him, much larger than him, both purring like a pair of happy cats on a cold damp night, safe in each other's being and touch. It was a deep and quiet feeling like a long soft breath.
Then the alarm screamed.
Tristan hit it hard and knocked it off the night stand, but it still alarmed a new day. And Tristan was alone. It had only been a dream.
Maybe that's all it had ever been.
Six years before, he had met Tim. An athletic stud, and Tris shy about his stubborn puppy fat. Three years into their relationship, Tris began to pout and worry that the puppy had grown into a large fat dog, but Tim convinced him that every ounce was gold. And three years later, they were both working on a secret goal too obvious to the world. Tim was more than an chaser, he was an encourager. Tris was more, much more than a chub, he was a gainer.
They both wrestled with who they had become, and they alternately convinced each other all was well. But they always felt pressured by the community at large. And both were haunted by the idea that they had become fetish freaks. Tim began to worry to himself he had become a manipulator, pushing his lover to an unhealthy life. How could he and Tris go dancing now? Everyone would see that with each passing month, Tris was more and more of a man than before.
And Tristan whispered into his own ears that he was becoming a victim, letting himself surrender, become a puppet. They were rarely on the same comfort level by last Christmas, and by Valentines, the pair whose parents and friends said would be forever, weren't.
Now it was almost Christmas again, and Tris was going to work for another day. One day after another he told himself. One more day down and it'll get easier. One more day.
Tris had been depressed not just about the loss of Tim, but about his prospects. He had reached 290 with Tim. The chub/chaser community was small where they lived. He could move, but this was home. A week after Tim moved out, Tris decided to drop the weight for good. For the first time in his life, he wasn't going to be the chub or even the cub. He was going to become a muscle queen himself and get any man he wanted. It might take years, or even cosmetic surgery, but he was still in his thirties. He had time. He would re-invent himself and through that, find love again.
Tristan joined the local gym. He was safe there; Tim had moved upstate. He was working extra hours and when he wasn't, the money he made went to a consulting trainer he met with once a week.
Derek was everything Tim was, but he didn't want Tris to get fat, just the opposite. Tris saw that Derek really cared for him, wanted him to be a lean, gay god.
Tris had felt fat as a teen at 180. He had less muscle then. He climbed slowly to about 200 when he met Tim. Tim loved Tris passionately, and by the time they talked about it, Tris had climbed a little higher. It was then that Tim had started to brainwash Tristan more and more, the fucker. Tris hated the memories, how Tim would lavish food on him, fuss over his body, all the while, manipulating him into becoming more and more fat.
Worst of all, Tris loved that Tim was a soft fattie, that Tris' body was jiggly, not firm, that his belly was riddled with stretch marks, his pecs wide and bouncy, his love handles like a second butt, his buttery rolls dripping over his hips, down his crotch, covering his pants till he couldn't reach into his pockets for change, couldn't keep a shirt covering his walrus lard even in cold weather.
Tris thought of all this in anger as he pumped iron in the December-humid gym. He could feel the pitiful stares on him at all times, the proud stares of others thinking he was brave to show himself at the gym at all, and work to pull himself from this worst of conditions for any modern young American. Many men there had shirts off or so tight they might as well have been.
Tris was beginning to understand that with every pound he lost, his ever loosening skin would betray him, his sorted history. "How could anyone ever let themselves go that badly?" he could hear them whisper. As humiliating as each trip to the gym was, quitting, proving to the elite that he could never be one of them, was out of the question, even more humiliating. He was going to join their ranks no matter what it took. Maybe it would take surgery.
"Well young man, this would be an optional item, not covered by your insurance." Tris swallowed hard at the doctor's news. He'd just learned the price and knew that it required a loan and would take about five years to pay off.
"You should understand also that many people scar. But we make the incision along the waistline so its usually hidden in a bathing suit. Those marks are another story however. I've rarely seen such intense stretch marks on a man, I think those may stay with you." The doctor that day could see that Tristan was shocked by all this news: his body was not a canvas he could start over on.
"Tristan, you've lost weight and you're quite healthy, although your charts from Dr. Martin showed no problems from before." he spoke down through his bifocals. Think realistically son, very few of us were designed to be models, and few of us would really want that. My advice is stay on your new path, and maybe some of your loose skin will recover on its own. The rest will always be a reminder to you of where not to go again."
All of this stung in Tristan's recent memories and made all of his workouts more determined, angry. All the body manipulation, the intentional stretching he and Tim had done because he was fool enough to believe Tim when he cooed in his ear and told him how nice his drooping fat was. Worst were the continuing dreams; all similar. It was a fantastical dream that lead them down a path once before, and now dreams were speaking to Tris again.
In them, he was always happy. Happy and very fat. His wrinkled and sad belly was flowing again with juices, plump, stretch marks taught from gravity. His navel was deep enough to hold a man's whole fist. In these dreams, Tris was constantly playing with his own gut, squishing the dough, tracing the rolls. And he was intoxicated by touch, as only the touch of another's hands can do. Dreams aren't supposed to have sounds, scents, but these always did. There was a man softly moaning, and it was either Tris himself, or Tim or both. In them, Tris' fat rolls moved slowly and soothingly, like ocean waves, and Tim was the little boat, happy to be lost in the swells.
He would feel Tim's large hands, even his big flat feet, caressing his blubber, kissing him endlessly, bringing Tris close to orgasm so many times just by sucking on his belly. When Tim did finally fight his way through the thick luxurious layers to reach Tris' hidden dick, (and he always did), Tim would extract a promise from Tris to gain more, or eat one last cookie before he would make him come. And both always did.
Each night's dreams were stronger and stronger as the months passed and Tris lost more weight. Sometimes, the feelings were so strong, he'd wake expecting the past to be the present, and he would feel like crying when it was cold, and there were no arms wrapped around his fat middle, fingers lost in the folds. He had lost more than Tim, he had lost a friend they both loved, his belly, and didn't feel like himself anymore. In fact, by night he was Tristan, and by day he was someone else who didn't have a name yet. But that guy almost never smiled anymore.
"Whoa, whoa! big guy, easy!" Derek was leaning over the control panel on Tris' stair machine. Save some for Christmas dude!"
Tris was a sweaty mess. His sagging gut and chest were jiggling against his soaked shirt and his face dripped.
"Time to go home man, you've been here for about 3 hours tonight."
"Really? Good, I just might make that goal by New Year's."
"Tris," Derek shook his head, "Man, there's no one here not inspired by your progress over the last year. You've gone from 290 to 220 in 11 months. Fuck! You're making me look really good to my other clients. Hell, you could be a poster boy for this gym, but enough is enough. Give me a pulse."
Tris obeyed and slowed his pace. "Listen while you count. We've talked before about taking this slower, how you want to make it last. Your body had a long time to get used to being fat, its gonna take time to get used to being lighter again. Just relax, everybody hits plateaus and I'm worried if you hit one, you'll give in. Okay?"
Tris nodded to shut him up. Derek didn't even ask for the number, he'd just wanted Tris to be focused on his message.
"Tell you what, I'll walk you home, we can talk about this."
Tris took Derek at his word, no man had wanted to touch him since Tim fled, Derek didn't seem the sexual predator although both were out to each other.
In the moonlight on the street.
"So you're not going to tell me about him, huh? Not even after all this time?" Derek was looking at the sidewalk as they moved.
"Derek, I think we've moved past trainer/client, but some of it still hurts too much." Tris said softly.
Derek thought: Buddy if I didn't need the money right now, I'd train you for free. "Tris, I've done this long enough to see how people use the regime to work through some pain, usually break-ups.
'Oh if I could just be perfect again,' they think, 'I'll get ma revenge!" Derek was using his best Miss Scarlet impression, but he couldn't see Tris' expression well in the passing streetlights.
Tris was silent for a long time as they walked. Finally, "I can't believe I let myself be ruined by a guy, for a guy."
"Aw honey, who hasn't sung that one?"
"You haven't! Fuck man, you've got maybe 6% body fat! Look at your legs!"
Derek looked down, and his smile flattened. "Yeah, look at my legs, so big I've got to get jeans 4 inches too big in the waist and cinch 'em up so my big legs'll fit. All my life, lift with my arms and my legs grow. Sneeze and my legs grow. We've all got something."
This was a shock for Tris. From the day he signed at the gym, Derek was his new role model in the daytime anyway. "Tris, this is my block. Come on up and we'll keep talkin. I promise, I'll stay a gentleman."
Tris was so shocked again he just nodded and kept pace. That Derek could even suggest he'd even NOT be a gentleman, to imply an attraction to him, was thrilling. Dieting and exercise were working! The ex-captain of the every-team in high school was inviting Tris back to his apartment for 'talk.'
Tris plopped down on the couch and surveyed the room. Nothing matched, everything a little worn, and the smell of sweat. Pictures of muscled guys posing on snow skis, water skis, hiking, Derek always somewhere in the crowd.
Derek blocked the light as he came back from the kitchen, handing Tris a tall cold glass of unknown before he plopped into the recliner next to the sofa.
Tris had it close before he smelled it and froze. "Hey, this is egg-nog man!"
"Uh, yeah, and its December, so bottoms-up." Derek began to down his without hesitation.
"Well, I'm trying to lose here remember?" Tris was a little pissed at his trainer.
"Relax Tris,' I'm not trying to keep you longer as a client, you've earned it. Just a little as a reward."
"I can't believe you'd offer me this!"
"Hey, its okay in moderation. You'll never be okay with all this if you can't give in a little and learn moderation Tris. Consider it part of my training."
Tris calmed down and considered this sound advice. This most sinful of liquids, this gold to gainers was pure, sinful poundage. Sweet, creamy, cold butterfat coating into the stomach, and from there directly deposited onto each hip, thigh, to a new cellular layer under the skin next to the navel.
Tris almost emptied the glass when he realized he'd done it.
"Now," said Derek, its not like that was liquor to loosen your tongue, but why don't you really tell me the story?'
As the eggnog went home, Tris decided to finally confide.
He began with his childhood pudginess, his college awakening, his meeting Tim. He told about the gradual gain and awakening in both that they both loved it, and Tris, for the first time even told about the magical dream in which he not only achieved his fantasy weight, but his body had been altered to meet Tim's fantasy's as well. And finally, Tris trundled into their closing-in on the dream, how Tris felt like they were getting too caught up in the obcession with the fetish until their periodic fights became regular, and finally, someone said something so hurtful it was over cold. No logic, just broken hearts.
"Who said what?"
Tris paused, and looked from the floor into Derek's eyes, his own starting to fill with tears, but blank otherwise.
"Uhm, I... I don't remember. Wow. It was such a nasty scene, I don't remember who said what."
There was a long silence.
"Now I'm just angry. How could he manipulate me like that and then leave me so that no one else would want me?"
After silence again, "I always wanted you."
Tris jerked his eyes up into Derek's again, his own in control again.
"I've wanted you from the day you waddled into the gym, but less and less so for two reasons. Now I know you need a friend more than a lover right now, and two, you've gotten too damn skinnny!'
Both men smiled, but Tris began: "What the hell...?:"
"Don't be so shocked dude! There's more of us chubbly lovin' muscle queens than you realize! Damon and Rudy have been after my butt to introduce you but I've told 'em back off, give you space, time to find yourself again. Beside, I called dibs if you fell off the wagon."
"That's not very professional," smiled Tris.
"It is if I resign as your trainer." Derek poured a second helping of eggnog into Tris' glass without asking and set the carton on the coffee table.
"Look Tris, I've done this long enough to read people. I'd love to take advantage of you right now. But I'll give you something better: I had this leather-wearin', Harley riding dyke of a boss once. She had a buzz-cut and wore the worst chunky glasses. Her girlfriend was butter-ball fem with long hair and acme. I always thought they had a real weird relationship, an odd-couple, couldn't see how my boss thought she was attractive dressed in flannel and leather.
Then one day, her honey showed me a picture of boss when she was a little girl in some flowery dress, mud on it and sour puss on her face. And it hit me. That's just who she was. Its not like she decided she would dress like a man to make life easier. Its just how she was comfortable in her own skin.
Her own skin Tris. I haven't seen a guy so uncomfortable in his own skin in years as you. Some people see themselves as the opposite sex they were born with. Your body sees itself as fat, period. Me, Damon, Kenny, Tim, we're guys who see ourselves as muscle boys. Muscle boys who want a partner fat as pudding. Its just how we're wired.
How do I know? We talk in the locker room. Hey, for the price of that glass emptied, I'll give you the biggest secret we have."
Tris looked at Derek with a hint of suspicion, "What's in this besides nutmeg?"
Derek smiled like he'd wished he thought of something that himself.
"Nothin' you haven't wanted for about a year boy!"
Tris smirked, and drank. A nog-mustache on his upper lip in a few minutes. "Talk beef-boy."
"Biggest secret? I know of three muscle queens who look at you like you've got bigger balls than they do. Shit, they think you've got the biggest gear 'cause you're not afraid to be fat. You can carry it. Hell, my family history won't let me go above 10%. I'm one of the jealous ones..."
"Will always see myself this way. You Tris, you were the most comfortable in his skin guy I'd met, hurt yeah, but comfortable when you came in that first day. So here's how I see it." Derek lowered his voice, leaned in: "It's nearly Christmas. Nobody should be alone. You proved it to yourself, you can trim down if you want to. But what the fuck is the point? You're alone, Tim's alone..."
"Wha, how'd you know..."
"He gave me his number before he left town. Said keep an eye on you, look out for you. We've talked. Shit Tris, he's a worse mess than you are. He hasn't moved on. You've tried, but he's still a fuckin' mess. Who'd you think he trained with when you were together? Right now I know two guys who used to be the happiest on the block. One was a gainer, the other an encourager and both scared to admit it to themselves. Nobody's hurtin' or controllin' the other if they both see themselves comfortable in their skins together."
Both men stared into each other's eyes for too long. Derek leaned in and grabbed Tris' jaw, giving him a butterfat nog kiss, both mouths sweet. He pulled away a little and whispered:
"Maybe your dreams have been trying hard to get through your skull. Go give you both a good Christmas. Call him, get back in his bed and back in your REAL skin, dreamboat."
Tris pulled away, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. It was a sweet kiss, but not the one he wanted anymore. After a pause, "Yeah, its the holidays, maybe I'll check up on Tim. But lets polish off this carton first, Mr Ghost of Christmas past-future."
"Its all yours Tris. I can't do it, I'm not disciplined enough."
Tris smiled acknowledgement and thought to himself, yeah, lightweights... He downed the rest with a smile and a burp.
Valentines a year later
Tris was grunting under the press and Tim was spotting him.
The set finished, Tris sat up, knees spread wide. His liquid belly rolled over to easily meet the bench seat between his legs. From the front now, his image in the mirror looked naked below the shirt line: his belly completely hid his black boxer briefs and as he looked down, he felt the same. As his breathing relaxed, his shirt hiked-up or his gut continued, or both. Now his cavernous navel was calling to sea kayaks to enter at high tide. During the break-up, he'd caught site of his navel, and his dick again. When showering, the water didn't always follow all the ski slopes now to reach under the cave shelves. Now, he had to trust he still had a belly button, a dick, they were down there, and inside his head, Tris knew that was how it should be for him. He was supposed to look down and see a fat gut, no navel, no dick from this angle. Besides, both should be serviced and cleaned by Tim, who was ever eager.
Tim was behind him, admiring. Tris had gotten down to 220 in the year apart, his 'fattest low ever.' Gain, lose, gain. lose, and he had climbed always. Any future cycles would likely never let him go below 250 now. The greedy little fat cells had multiplied, grown stubborn. Tris had three love handle sets now above his huge butt cheeks. From the sides, his handles and butt were one long curve interrupted by folds. Tris was still smooth bellied, but his stretch marks were now as numerous as the hairs on a bear.
He saw Tim smiling at his reflection in the home gym mirror. Tris' nipples were now a full two inches wide, his pecs massive mounds. His belly still didn't have the round arch of some gainers. He was a sub-q fat builder, which meant he could lay on more. Of course it did mean the fat pad around his dick was always there (even when he was down to 220, it was almost the same). But interestingly enough, both men loved the side effect. Tim loved having to fight for buried treasure. Tris loved having his dick always surrounded by warm blubber, 24/7. Something only a fat guy could understand.
When he stood, his belly apron would sag to below his crotch. Front pockets were the most pic-pocket proof place on either of them in a crowd.
Tris had grown a 'reverse crew-cut' of a goatee under his chin, trimmed along his jaw-line, accentuating his fat cheeks. His thighs now always rubbed together. His butt was a wide, round bubble. Every new ounce could be seen in its regain over the past year. The little fat cells were sponges coming back to life after the drought. The boys measured and weighed, pinched and tickled. New underwear came and went. Even the sparse blonde belly hairs on Tris started to space themselves father and farther apart on that growing dance floor.
Tris was 321 now. And happier than he had ever been. They had stopped with conscious gaining for now, and no more up and down, or manipulations to create a bigger navel. Hell, Tim slept with a fist in there every night, their breathing going into sync. And sometimes they started to play with using Tris' navel for other longer things, with a little lube. Tris hadn't imagined that new benefit, but the skin was so sensitive it was a huge turn-on for both. And as before, every added pound seemed to add five more nerve-ending on the surface.
A long belly massage was a nightly thrill that Tim saw as his duty to his honey. Intoxicating meditation for both.
Tim was beefier, but Tris just ate what he wanted, when he wanted, and worked out evenings to stay healthy. Tris enjoyed all of Tim's dense muscles, but it seemed he was always on the end of touch. They had worried about this, but Tim assured Tris he got intense joy out of watching Tris wriggle throughout each belly-worship session.
Tim sat on the bench behind Tim, as they always liked and started to nibble an ear while his hands fought Tris' fat roll, snaking their way underneath toward the front till they both cupped the lobes below the navel, each as round and jellied as Tris' pecks.
"321, my fat gorgeous lover. That puts you about 50% bmi now. Wow!"
"Yeah, wow. But are you sure, I know I've gained some muscle since high school! Its not all been lard..."
"I don't know pudgy, but I want to believe..."
"Hey how about you, more muscle?"
"I'm up to 198 growled Tim."
"Well good job Tarzan! Are you happy Tim, my encourager?"
"You bet your fat butt little Tris, never better."
Both men squeezed into each other, finally happy in their own skins. The door bell sounded. "I invited an old friend over for a toast, to celebrate."
Tim answered the door and Derek strode in, a carton of egg nog in hand. "I kept a couple of cartons in the freezer from New years," he explained. "Let's celebrate."
"Celebrate what?" Tris asked.
Derek grinned: "A couple of fools who finally gave in and got happy!"
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